A/N: Hey guys. I'm back from the world of dead muses and such nonsense. It's getting harder and harder for me to write- I have way too many story ideas that sound great in my head, but I can only get around three chapters on each and then I abandon them. Not Strong, though. I'm still working on it- just can't seem to get it to read correctly. I'm trying to get back into the swing of things- that's why I redid this oneshot, in an attempt to get my creative juices flowing. As usual, this is an attempted tragedy... but I'm working on a bit of a heartwarming Christmas oneshot, too, so we'll see if that gets anywhere (probably not).

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little story. I wrote the original to this about three years ago, and I found it again when I was looking through some old documents. How it got in there, I don't know. I took it and fleshed it out, just for practice, and decided to post it. Honestly, I think I liked the old one better, but this is much more detailed and more readily understood.

Remember, the original was written three years ago, which means that Stella was still on the team at the point in time I wrote this. If you don't mind, try to keep that in the back of your mind so it doesn't get too confusing. Thanks!

-decyfer

A breeze blew steadily past, sending long-bare branches clacking together and dislodging the odd bird remaining for the winter. The sun was just reaching above the horizon, casting a faint glow across the hillside and pushing the darkness back for another day. Shadows began to form below grave markers, throwing the face of a lone man into half-shadow, half-light. It made him look much older and more battle-weary than he was. Or perhaps, just as battle-weary. He had seen too many unspeakable things within his lifetime, after all. He moved silently past row after row of graves, hunched against the strong winter wind. One hand was deeply entrenched within his pocket, while the other clutched three dark pink roses tightly within a fist. No expression resided within the hard set of his features, but as his eyes swept across the graveyard, they took on a haunted, almost dead quality. Slowly, his trudging steps came to a halt before a particular row, and he hesitated, his eyes flicking from a black gravestone to his shoes. Finally, with his mind set, he half-stumbled to the modest stone, jaw clenching in something akin to fear.

He set himself above the grave, almost unblinking, as the sky faded from black to red, a crimson color that only made him think of blood Her blood. His stomach churned and his resolve seemed to sputter. He shifted on his feet, and finally, hesitatingly, he laid the roses on top of the stone. The thorns came away from his palm bloody, and he regarded the hand with surprise, as if he had thought clutching them in that manner shouldn't have injured him.

For a long while, he did nothing. The world shifted into color, and still he remained, motionless. When the clouds began to reflect pink instead of red, the man tentatively opened his mouth and then closed it. He waited again, as if for the perfect moment. And then, as suddenly as she had died, the words were let loose.

"You promised. You promised that you would always be there for me."

He cut himself off, embarrassed at sounding like a child. A tear escaped wet eyes, but he made no move to brush it away. His breath puffed clouds of steam into the air, and he watched the trails dissipate into nothingness.

"That's what partners... best friends... that's what they're there for, you said."

He sighed, extricating the other hand from its pocket before digging his fingers into sore temples. His coat shifted with the cold breeze, but he didn't move to correct it. He didn't deserve to stay warm. Not now.

"Why did you leave me?"

His voice broke off at the end, trailing off into the growing darkness.

"Why are you gone?"

He closed his eyes tightly against the world in front of him. In his mind, things could be the same. Always the same. His breath hitched as he opened them back, and his gaze once again landed on... it.

"Why did you take that bullet?"

The rage in his voice surprised even him. He stepped back, shakily, clutching his cold fingers into fists.

"I need you here, why aren't you here?"

His voice explodes and echoes over the empty graveyard. No other mourners filled the grounds at this early hour, but that was the exact reason why he had arrived before dawn. His voice faded into a whisper as he spoke again, repeating, always repeating.

"You promised."

He took a seat on the well-frosted grass, resting his back against the chilled marble. A shiver raced up his spine at the contact, but he remained there, stiff, until it grew warm with his body heat. He sat for a time, watching the color of the sky as the minutes blurred past, the sky melting from a deep pink to rich blue. The clouds had disappeared: it was looking to be a gorgeous winter day, as she would have surely pointed out. He cursed it, and happiness in general. There would never be any for him, not again. He had been given another chance, and he had blown it.

"That bullet was meant for me," he commented blandly, in an almost calm tone. "And you-you stepped in front of it."

He choked and lowered his head into his hands, mindless of the bloody palm one sported. Guilt washed over him, flooding his senses with pain. "I didn't even notice that our suspect wasn't dead. I thought he was dead! Dead, dead, dead...

"But I need you, you know, however much you thought I didn't. How am I supposed to go on without you?"

A memory came unbidden, of her laughing, of her voice as she told him that he could do it all alone, of reconciliation after a case put them at odds.

"It wasn't so long ago that you told me I could, but I... I'm not so sure."

Tears flowed freely down his face, and he grimaced, turning to face the marker. He ran a finger through the grooves, tracing her name. "We both know I never would have made it this far, not without you. And now I have to deal with this... alone? Without you?"

There was no reply, but he hadn't expected one. Without warning, rage flared up within his chest and spliced across his face, and he struck against the stone, not even feeling the blow. Blood trailed down his hand and he gazed at it and through it, remembering her death. Remembering her blood weeping through his fingers, remembering his tears splashing onto her too-still body, remembering how with each drop, blood ran a cruel path against gray skin, remembering even how it felt to hold her lifeless body and wait for an ambulance that was too late... that would always be too late... and now there was red marring the headstone, not that she would ever know. She couldn't ever know. She wouldn't, couldn't, be there, be his best friend, be his rational voice in this chaotic world.

Sadness overwhelmed him, but the memories came as well: sweet, glorious memories that he had once thought little of. Now, they were his lifeline.

He reached out and wiped at the blood, only succeeding in smearing it over her name.

Friend, partner, hero, it read in white.

Stella Bonasera, it read in blood.

*A dark pink rose generally means 'thank you'. Three roses means 'I love you'. Take whatever you like from that.